


Nothing

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Sex, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally breaks after Mary is taken away for her crimes. Sherlock is there to try to put him back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



It had been three months since the plan went through. Mary, or AGRA, or whoever she really was, was locked up in some place up West where Mycroft's people were interrogating her. There was no child. There was no wife. There was nothing. 

John had managed to keep his job, barely making it through each day and hating his life more every hour. He found a small flat an hour out of London and used the car Mary and he had bought to get back and forth each day. Two hours on the road with nothing but his thoughts. 

Sherlock had, of course, offered him his old room at Baker Street but that would have been a disaster. Between the newly obvious feelings the two had for each other and the inkling he'd been used that came from pretending everything was fine with...her...so that Mycroft could get his way things were too raw to start over. 

He'd been on a few cases with Sherlock but now things seemed off. John only wanted to go on cases that fit with his schedule, making it impossible to tell if they were worth it or not. The second time they sat in a small cafe after an aborted case in painful silence John had given up on ever having what they had before. 

His loneliness and what was surely some form of depression caused him to make a very bad choice one night after clinic. He went drinking after staying sober for three months. He'd tried to get himself under control, knowing that at this point he could go either way. He didn't want to die an old angry drunk like his father. 

\-----

The bar was poorly lit and loud, just the kind John needed. As he made his way through the front door he loosened his tie and slipped it over his head, stuffing it in his pocket and looking around. There were a few attractive women and he figured he could probably pull tonight if he turned up the charm. The kind he seemed to attract these days, even though he'd never taken up an offer, tended to be dissatisfied office types and lonely housewives. He hated being someone's bad decision. 

He supposed it was obvious how despondent he was. Every time he looked in the mirror he felt older and more run down. He must stink of desperation. 

He took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, a bad sign right away. 'Starting off on the hard stuff, Johnny?' his sister's voice said in his head. He almost told her to shut up out loud, only stopping himself at the last second. 

She was a new occurrence. Not his sister, but her voice in his head. She seemed to sneak around in the shadows of his mind, she told him how bad he looked, how like his father. The second full time resident in his mind was Sherlock. Well, not Sherlock. That's what he'd started calling him; Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock called him an idiot, something a lot less oddly charming when it gained the vitriol of John's self-hate. 

He was on his sixth whiskey when Not Sherlock told him he was a moron to get drunk before he had to drive home. He ordered another while the voice counted off the many ways John had fucked up in the last week that led to this little outing.

'The receptionist, John? Are you really so ruled by your libido that you've sunk to buggering staff in the break room like a med student?' Not Sherlock supplied. 

This time John did say 'shut up' aloud, something that drove the barkeep to usher him out onto the pavement and into the frigid night air. He mumbled to himself as he pulled his coat tight around him. The same coat he'd only realised resembled Sherlock's once the daft git had returned from the dead. Bloody perfect. 

A cab pulled up next to him and he was so happy to get out of the cold that he forgot not only that he'd driven there but that he wasn't meant to return to Baker Street. He gave the cabbie his old address and let his head rest against the frosted window as they made their way across town. 

The man told him not to vomit in his cab several times and John managed to avoid doing so, if only barely. He payed and was two steps out before he threw up everything he'd had to drink on the kerb. 

'It's your body's way of getting rid of the poison you so stupidly imbibed. That's what alcohol is, John. You should know that, you are a doctor after all. You've successfully spent all your food money for the week on poisoning yourself.' Not Sherlock said. 

John retched again and stood back with a start when he felt a hand on his back. He looked up to see a phantom. No, not a phantom, Sherlock. For a second he thought he was now actually getting visual hallucinations of Not Sherlock but this one looked sad, his eyes tinged with the kind of pity John didn't want to admit he deserved. 

"Let's get you cleaned up." The real Sherlock said, pulling John against him and walking him into the warmth of the building.


	2. Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get close to a revelation. Close isn't good enough.

John was walked up the stairs by a very concerned Sherlock, past Mrs Hudson and into the flat. He tried to pull away once they were through the door but Sherlock didn't let go of his arm as they made their way to the loo. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet and Sherlock ran the tap over a flannel then gently drew it across his forehead. 

"Why am I here?" John asked. 

"I suppose you gave the cabbie the wrong address in your inebriated state." Sherlock replied. "Would you like to take a bath?" 

"I'd like to leave." John grumbled. 

"That's not going to happen I'm afraid. You aren't in any state to be travelling. Here," Sherlock added, handing John his toothbrush, "brush your teeth." 

John stuck the brush in his mouth as he swayed a bit and brushed clumsily until Sherlock took it back and had him stand to rinse his mouth. He was then walked into Sherlock's bedroom and sat on the bed. 

"I don't want to be here." He said loudly. 

"I can tell." Sherlock replied, hurt bleeding into his words. 

"I hate you." 

Sherlock turned, walking towards the kitchen at that and John spoke a bit louder. 

"Stop. Don't leave."

Sherlock stilled but refused to turn. "I don't need anymore abuse." 

"Please stay." John replied, voice suddenly unsure and missing any of the anger from before. 

Sherlock turned slowly and took in John. The man looked so much smaller now, arms tucked around his knees and eyes shining and wet. He looked so young and hurt. Sherlock couldn't stop himself from walking quickly to his side and taking him in his arms. 

"I didn't." John said, voice coming quietly. "I didn't want this. I didn't want any of this." 

Sherlock sat back to brush the tears from his cheeks and John pushed his hand away. 

"I didn't! I'm so sick of you pretending you're a sociopath just because you're afraid to feel! I'm bloody scared too, okay? I'm sick of it!" John said angrily. 

Sherlock looked away quickly and his lips drew into a frown. "I'm not normal, John. I'm sorry you don't want to believe it, but I'm not." 

"Normal? Who the hell is normal? You think I'm normal? I get off on shooting baddies and chasing people down in the street. I went to war because I wanted to help people and ended up killing people as well. I married a bloody spy! I'm not normal!" John hollered. 

"I can't be with you, John, not like that. Not the way you need." Sherlock replied softly, refusing to meet John's eyes. 

"I don't think that's true. You love me. You said so at my wedding, don't think I missed it. That's what I need. I need you to care about me and that's it. If you're not, if it's, if you don't want to be...physical...that's alright too. I can't live without you, I can't do it. I need you." John said. 

"It's not that I don't want the physical aspect! I'm just no good. You're John 'three continents' Watson and I've only ever been with one person. I'm going to be a disappointment and it'll make you leave. It made him leave."

"Who? Who left, Sherlock?" John asked, sitting up and turning Sherlock to face him. 

"It's nothing. I don't want to...you need to sleep." Sherlock said, standing and walking from the bed. 

"Sherlock." John begged. 

"I'll see you in the morning, John." Sherlock replied as he closed the door. 

John fell back to the bed and stared at the ceiling. They'd been so close. So bloody close. 

\-----

Sherlock walked back into the sitting room and then ran down the stairs and out of the flat. It was starting to drizzle out so when he punched the brick wall around the back of the building his hands slipped a bit and his knuckles were sliced open. The pain was sharp and he hit the wall again, softer this time, and watched his blood drip down the damp grout. He tried to hit it again but the pain stopped him short. 

He was a failure, he couldn't even do this right. He wanted to break his hand, hit the wall so many times he would need a doctor, so many times he would be scarred. He wanted to be more broken on the outside than he was inside. He pushed his knuckles against the wall once more, leaning his whole weight against it as tears made their way down his cheeks. 

"Freak." He murmured. "Freak."


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to work themselves out.

That night Victor haunted Sherlock's dreams. He walked around him without acknowledging him at all. He slipped past Sherlock as if he were a ghost. Sherlock woke in a cold sweat. 

He started and almost fell to the floor when he looked up to see John standing at the edge of the sofa, watching him with a pained gaze. He looked away and quickly rolled into his belly, pushing his face into the cushions. John walked closer and touched high on his back. 

"I need to clean up your hand." he said. 

His hand? Oh. Oh, yes. He pulled it under his chest, wincing at the pain, and refused to reply. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock, let me help you." John said, voice so full of concern Sherlock thought he might just vomit from having to listen to it. 

He heard John walk from the room and start going through the cupboards in the loo. He would undoubtedly find Sherlock's medical supplies, a perfect copy of his own med bag, and want to put them to use. Sherlock held himself tighter and started to grind his teeth. 

"Get up, you great git. You're going to bleed all over the sofa." John said when he'd returned. 

When Sherlock refused to move John walked over and pulled the blanket out from under him, making him fall to the floor with a loud thump and a yelp. 

"I'm not gonna let you lay there all day festering. Let. Me. Clean. Your. Hand." John said, voice now strong and inching towards anger. 

"Maybe I want it to fester." Sherlock spit from his place on the floor. 

John sniffed loudly, mouth a tight line, and Sherlock knew he'd been wrongfooted. 

"You want infection? Fine. I'll bloody leave. Why would I want to be some place I'm not wanted. Don't call me when you get a fever and start oozing! This time you'll have to go to A&E. I'm done cleaning up your messes!" John shouted as he threw the bag to the floor. 

"You'll never be done cleaning up my messes!" Sherlock shouted back. "My messes are the only reason you don't have a bloody gun in your mouth every night! My recklessness is the only thing keeping you from putting a bullet in your head." 

John's face fell and Sherlock's stomach dropped. He felt like a little boy who'd been found out. Like he'd stolen a candy bar and everyone knew. He didn't even process that he was standing until he was slamming the front door before John could walk through it. 

"Get out of my way!" John shouted. 

"You don't really love me!" Sherlock shouted back. "It's just like you said, I'm a drug. You're addicted to me and that's not love!" 

It came out of his mouth before he could stop it, his own fear, the things that had tangled around his heart and seemed to be pulling him down even now. He knew love and addiction. He knew they weren't the same. 

"I didn't mean, that was just, I was-" John began, tripping headlong over his own tongue. 

"Don't lie to me, John. Don't lie to yourself. You're addicted to me and you want to love me. That would be easy, wouldn't it? To pretend what this is is love. The perfect way to trap me. That would fix your conscience, wouldn't it? You're not broken if this is love! Well, I won't have that. I won't be congratulated for your unhealthy obsession." Sherlock spit. 

"MY unhealthy obsession? MINE? You've got to be joking! You gatecrashed my marriage proposal! You were so keen to have me all to yourself that you announced yourself back in my life on the one night that was supposed to be about me and someone else!"

"I let you marry her! I was your best man!" Sherlock said back, hands clenching at his sides. 

"And I'm supposed to, what, thank you? Thank you for letting me marry someone like that? That had nothing to do with my happiness, Sherlock, that had to do with you and your brother's little end game!"

"Oh, for God's sake, John, I didn't know then. I didn't know she was who she was!" Sherlock said, seemingly physically deflated by the words. 

"Well, why not? Most brilliant man in the world and you couldn't see that for what it was? The one time I want you to deduce a woman I'm with and you fell short! Bloody useless!" 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together and he took a step back. John was already trying to find something to say. He wanted to take it back but he was so hurt. 

"You're right, John. I'm sorry I failed you." Sherlock said quietly.  
John didn't move at first when Sherlock stuck his right hand out palm down. He just looked at the torn skin and bruises for a moment before remembering what he'd asked of Sherlock. He took Sherlock's fingers and drew him into a seat at the kitchen table then, grabbing the med kit from the floor and kneeling in front of him. 

"I didn't mean-" He started as he drew wet cotton over the mangled skin. 

"Yes, you did." Sherlock replied. 

John bit his tongue. 

\-----

Later that day, after patching up Sherlock's hand and making them both breakfast, John broached the subject that had been on his mind. He was sitting in his chair with Sherlock reading something on the computer across from him when he spoke.

"Would it be too much-" He began. 

"Your room is always ready for you, John, you should know that by now." Sherlock interjected. 

And wasn't that the way with them? John would finally get the guts to ask something he'd been afraid to ask and Sherlock would answer him before the full question was out. John sometimes wondered how long it was obvious to Sherlock what he was going to ask. Did he spend the whole day getting up the courage while Sherlock read it on him the second he woke? 

"Well, that's...that's good then." He replied lamely. 

Sherlock's lip curled and his eyebrows pulled together as he closed the laptop and John wondered for a moment whether he was going to admonish him for some unknown blunder. He didn't realise that the anger and disgust visible, if only for a moment, was directed inwards. 

"I should apologise ahead of time for my failings as a roommate. You are aware of them, yes, but I fear you may have forgot their intensity after living...away...for so long. I do not wish you to ever leave again so it would be best if you thought long and hard about your next move. With it you affect me greatly. Molly has some things for me in the morgue so I have to be off." Sherlock said, not looking John in the eye once before standing and walking out of the flat. 

John was gobsmacked. Absolutely gobsmacked. The fact that Sherlock had thought to apologise for being Sherlock didn't bode well for his mental state. He never thought about things like that...although. He had been different since coming back. His speech as best man had proved that well enough. 

When he spoke about himself he sounded as if he was slightly dissatisfied with his own being. Whereas before he would shrug off his own antics, now he not only questioned them but apologised? 

John didn't want apologies. He wanted mayhem and destruction along with quiet tea and comfortable silences. He wanted things back the way they were. He wanted his friend to be confident again. He was only just beginning to realise what a facade that was and it was making him very uneasy. 

He knew how to deal with facades, after all, he was the perfect British male. He had a feeling that might be his ultimate downfall but just as always he kept his head down and soldiered on. Emotional outpourings were for wedding receptions and funerals and he'd had one too many of each in the past few years. 

For God's sake, right now he was holding a crumbling facade up himself. Last night he'd got drunk and almost spilled his feelings to Sherlock and what had it got him? Hmm? A bloodied and broken best friend, that's what. The exact reason he'd never said anything in the first place. Rocking to boat only brought waves. 

And now he was thinking in metaphors, wonderful. 

\-----

"You've got to sort it out." Molly said as she passed Sherlock a coffee. 

"He's moving back in. There IS nothing to sort out." Sherlock replied shortly. 

Molly sat down beside him and let her head rest in her hands. Sherlock looked at her out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to, and she sighed heavily. 

"What?" Sherlock asked when she didn't speak. "I can hear you thinking. Just say it." 

"I've watched you two tiptoe around this for years and I'm just tired, okay?" she replied. 

"Why would that make YOU tired?" Sherlock asked, still refusing to look directly at his...well, yes, friend. 

"You're both in so much pain over it. It hurts me to see you like that. You once told me I mattered, so let me help." she pleaded.  
Sherlock stood and set down his cup, Molly's eyes following him. 

"I'll take your distress under consideration. I have to go." he said. 

"It won't go back to normal, Sherlock. Too much has happened." she said sadly. 

"It will. It has to." Sherlock added quietly as he grabbed his scarf and walked out into the hall. 

\-----

By the time Sherlock had stopped off at the bookstore and talked with his homeless network John had moved most of his things back in. He called in sick for the week and planned on bringing the rest of his belongings around in the next few days.

When Sherlock came through the front door he found John on the couch with three takeout boxes still steaming. There was something horrible on the telly and the whole place smelled of food, tea and washing up liquid. It made him ache with nostalgia. 

"Oh, there you are. I was about to ring your mobile." John said with a nervous smile. "I hope Thai is okay." 

Sherlock nodded curtly as he removed his gloves, wincing when the right one dragged along his injury. John jumped up and helped him remove it the rest of the way before sitting him on the couch and grabbing his med kit. 

"I'll just clean this up a bit then, shall I?" He asked. 

Sherlock let him remove the gauze and swipe cool liquid over his hand several times before wrapping it once more. John's eyebrows furrowed as he held Sherlock's hand carefully in his and looked at it like it was a small animal that needed taking care of. He licked his lips and cleared his throat before going back to eating while still clumsily holding onto Sherlock's hand.  
Sherlock sat watching him for a moment before he twined their fingers slightly and picked up a piece of Roti and took a small bite. John relaxed visibly and they settled in for a quiet dinner and some long overdue physical affection. 

\-----

After dinner John did the cleaning up while Sherlock played something on his violin. It was a song John remembered, but only just. He'd always been crap at remembering composers anyhow. The song wasn't necessarily sad but definitely wasn't happy. It was full of...longing, perhaps. 

When he was done with the dishes he fixed them both tea and they made it back to their places on the couch. Sherlock tentatively took John's hand in his as they watched the news. It was strange how that small amount of contact could send tendrils of heat through John's body and make Sherlock's mind slow almost to a halt. 

They stayed next to each other for a long time like that before John eventually fell asleep at Sherlock's side. Sherlock lay a blanket over him and looked closely at his fingers, determined to figure out what made them so appealing to his touch.


	4. Rewind

John woke up a few hours later to find Sherlock sitting on the arm of the sofa and looking down on him. He snuffled and cleared his throat, shaking away the sleep. Sherlock didn't move a tic, not even his eyes blinked. John waved a hand in front of him and laughed when there was no response. Mind Palace.

"Fell asleep. Christ, I'm getting old. Pretty soon I'll be going to sleep at five. You probably never will sleep normally. I bet we'll be ninety-two out living in the country and you'll refuse to sleep." John said, not expecting Sherlock to reply.

Sherlock shook his head twice and his eyes focused. "Rewind." he said, his voice resonant as ever.

When his eyes followed John the older man realised he was being talked to. "Sorry, come again." he said with an amused grin.

"Oh. It's you." Sherlock said softly, eyebrows knit tight.

"Yeah, it's me." John replied, now a bit concerned. "Who were you expecting?"

"Nevermind." Sherlock whispered before jumping up and spinning around to walk to the kitchen.

"Come on, don't nevermind me. What did you mean by rewind?" John asked, now less concerned but just as curious.

"Nothing. Nothing. You were gone and...nothing. It's stupid, childish." Sherlock said as he took his microscope from the cupboard.

"Well, now I'm intrigued. Tell me already." John said enthusiastically.

Sherlock drew in a quick breath and said the next bit at lightning speed. "You were gone and my mind missed you. It's stupid really. It made a kind of version of you. It's childish. Stupid."

"Oh." John whispered, suddenly looking somber.

"I told you it was stupid!" Sherlock said with a bit more vemon than necessary.

"No, that's not it. It's just, I kind of did the same thing." John admitted.

It was the first time he'd ever said it out loud. He didn't even tell Ella, but then again he rarely told her much of importance. He supposed that he saw it as the failings of his mind. It was a bit comforting to know Sherlock had felt it to, had reacted the same.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, finally looking up from the table.

"Yeah. My brain's Sherlock was a bit of a dick, though." he said with a smile.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and felt a little more human. "Mine was the same. I did, though. Miss you."

John looked as though he might say something for a minute. Instead he pursed his lips, shook his head and turned around.

"Best get to bed. Can't sleep the whole night on the sofa." He said as he walked up the stairs.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock said sadly. "Good night, John."

"Night Sherlock." John replied from the stairs. "See you in the morning."

_____

John slumped against the closed door. What the hell was he playing at? What had he almost just said? I love you? I missed you and I love you? Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

Sherlock would kick him out if he knew, if he knew the full extent of John's...love...for him. It would just go back to him insisting it was obsession.

John had been hurt by that, thank you very much. Obsession. As if he didn't know what love was. If it was only obsession John would have been able to get over it ages ago. The fact that he loved Sherlock was something he'd tried to deny to even himself for years. It had worked until the bastard came back from the dead.

He'd honestly forgot what it felt like to be in love, to want to give everything to someone. It was a bit ironic that he was in more of a romantic relationship with his roommate than he had been with his wife. She was the one that felt like a coworker. He'd spent so long dating women that he wasn't really head over heels for that he'd just got used to it.

That, he supposed, was one of the reasons he hadn't seen what he and Sherlock had as love in the first place. That and the fact that after Sholto he promised himself he'd never care that much for anyone again. Caring was painful when things fell to pieces. Christ, now he was sounding like Sherlock.

He pulled off his jumper and unbuttoned his shirt as he toed off his shoes. It was too late to be thinking of these sorts of things and he'd bared too much of himself by holding Sherlock's hand. Too much. He'd only get hurt, and he couldn't bear to hurt that wonderful man any more. Not again.

_____

The next morning they were both saved from the awkward conversation John was planning by an early call from Lestrade. Even though Sherlock thought it was probably a four he insisted they go and was met with no resistance. John managed a slice of toast while Sherlock was in the shower but that was it.

A cab arrived just as they exited the building and they hopped in. Sherlock gave the driver the address and the man nodded and took them away. They were about half way there when Sherlock's hand brushed against John's. They looked at each other immediatly. John was the first to look away.

"I hope Greg isn't in too bad a mood today. I know how these early ones drive him crazy. At least he'll have got coffee." John said, looking out the window at the familiar cityscape.

"Will you be going back to the clinic full time next week?" Sherlock asked out of the blue a few minutes later as they were drawing close to their destination.

John looked over and took a deep breath. He chewed on his lip and then took Sherlock's hand in his before looking back out the window.

"Do you want me to...to not?" he asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed down on something trying to pry itself from his throat, emotion probably, and spoke.

"If it were up to me you'd never work another day at an abysmal clinic. You already know that, John."

John shrugged and refused to meet his eye. "I don't know. It's been a long time since it was just us. Things change."

"We haven't. I'll never want you to squander your multitude of gifts on the idiotic masses. They'll get over their colds just fine without you. Me however..." Sherlock said confidently.

"You what?" John asked, finally looking up and over.

"I'll never stop wanting you." Sherlock replied.

John's mouth went dry and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't want to take that the wrong way. Sherlock had meant at his side. He'd never stop wanting John at his side. That was all. It was a purely selfish statement, had to be. And yet, there in Sherlock's eyes was something different. Not new necessarily but uncommon. John had seen it a few times before. Once after John had cracked a joke about feeling 'smoked' and another time on the tarmac.

"This is it, lads. You getting out?" The cabbie asked with a sigh.

The moment was broken and John took his hand away from Sherlock's to get out his wallet. He dropped a few notes in the man's outstretched hand and opened the door.

\-----

The case was solved with embarassing quickness, for Lestrade at least, and Sherlock excused them. John nodded at Greg and jogged to catch up.

"There's a nice café down the street." Sherlock said as he absently tapped away on his mobile.

"Are you actually hungry for once?" John asked as he pulled his coat tight around him.

"You need tea." Sherlock replied curtly.

"I can wait until we get home." John said.

"Nonsense. As much as you insist I don't take care of myself I will not stand for you to be uncomfortable." Sherlock answered.

John slowed and Sherlock looked up to see a soft smile on his face. It was a relief. Sherlock rarely got to see that smile anymore and he was starting to wonder if that John was lost to him forever.

"So you're taking care of me?" He asked as his smile grew into an outright grin.

"Someome has to." Sherlock replied teasingly before continuing down the street.

John took a deep breath, chest puffing up incrementally, and followed.


	5. With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to a movie. Confessions ensue.

They sat down by the window in the cafe and Sherlock continued to tap away at his phone. John looked the menu over and decided on a full fry up and some tea. He was staring at Sherlock's hands when the waitress approached. 

"What'll it be, love?" she asked with a smile. 

"Fry up and some tea." John replied. 

"And for your boyfriend?" she asked. 

"Toast and tea." John said. "And jam, he needs the sugar." 

The woman walked off and John looked over to find Sherlock staring with his mouth open. John cleared his throat and played with his napkin. 

"So, what do you want to do today?" he asked, knowing full well that not correcting the woman about their relationship status was monumental. 

Sherlock's mind was spinning. He felt like he should say something, demand an answer as to why John's response had changed. Possibly grab him by his coat and pull him in for a bruising kiss. Scrabble across the small table and knock him to the ground, fist a hand in his hair and attack his neck. Suck a bruise so large that everyone they met would know John was his, that John hadn't been offended to be referred to as his boyfriend, that they might not be boyfriends yet but that Sherlock was claiming him as a mate and would destroy anyone who stood in his way. Destroy. Absolutely destroy. 

"Jesus, are you alright? You look like you're going to be ill!" John said, concern evident on his face. 

Sherlock shook himself and clamped his mouth shut with such force that it could be heard. He looked back out the window, sick of his own cowardice. 

"Fine." he said. "We could see a movie. There's the new Bond flick. I'm sure it will be abysmal but you seem to find that sort of thing appealing." 

John choked on his tea, the tea the waitress had brought while Sherlock's mind was doing an obvious reboot. 

"You want to see a movie." he said in disbelief. 

"I didn't say that." Sherlock replied haughtily. 

John squinted and sat back in his seat. "You want to see a movie with me." 

Sherlock huffed and fidgeted with his mobile. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't. You're right though, we shouldn't go. It was a stupid idea." 

"No. No, it's, it's good. Yeah, let's go." John said softly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a bite of his toast. The smile on John's face could have lit up the whole street. He took a bite of his eggs and sighed happily. 

_____

Sherlock paid for their tickets and John tried not to smile too hard. He felt like a bloody teenager going on his first date. He wanted to hold Sherlock's hand but they hadn't done that in public yet and everything felt like it was balanced precariously on the edge of some great abyss. 

They made their way in and found a seat at the back. Sherlock explained that they would do best to stay away from the other theatre goers as he had no expectation of being able to keep his mouth shut. 

"I haven't been to the movies in such a long time." John said as they settled in for the previews. 

"Fourteen years." Sherlock replied. 

John snorted. "Oi! Not that long!" 

"No. Me, I haven't been in fourteen years." Sherlock admitted. 

"Well, looks like you're breaking quite a stretch." John said, eyeing Sherlock carefully in the light from the screen. 

"It's starting." Sherlock said. 

"Stating the obvious now, are we?" John teased. 

Sherlock huffed but settled into his seat. 

_____

Halfway through the movie John's hand found its way to Sherlock's. The taller man stuttered in his complaint about the inaccuracies of the MI-5 building's interior but continued on. John smiled to himself and stroked the back of his hand with his thumb. 

_____

Sherlock spent the second half of the movie watching John's face in the near dark. He was so full of expression and Sherlock realised that one of the reasons he loved John was that he never tried to hide them from him. It was in such stark contrast to himself that Sherlock wondered if he'd been going about things wrong his whole life. Maybe it was true what John had said, maybe people wanted to know he was human. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. 

As the movie was drawing to an end he leaned over and kissed John lightly on the cheek. John looked at him in disbelief but smiled softly. Sherlock felt ill. Wonderfully so. 

_____

When the movie had ended and Sherlock stood to leave he was surprised to find that John wouldn't let go of his hand. He gripped it tightly as they made their way out the back door and Sherlock felt that now common bit of emotion swelling in his throat. 

"Oi! Poofters! Get a room!" a thirty something brawler type said as they walked around the back. 

John smiled his dangerous smile and took a step forward. 

"You have a problem with me holding his hand?" he demanded. 

"Yeah! It's bloody disgusting!" the man replied with a sneer. 

John chuckled and took a step forward to give the man a spectacular Glasgow kiss. Sherlock watched as the stranger's nose spouted blood and John straightened his coat. It felt like electricity was flowing through his veins and he followed John out of the alley as the man behind them screamed at them. 

"John." Sherlock said softly. 

"I have a right to hold your hand wherever I want." John replied stifly as he took Sherlock's hand back in his. 

"You didn't have to assault him." Sherlock said with a small grin as his body continued to feel like a live wire. 

"I've been known to make bad decisions when it comes to people insulting you." John quipped. 

"That you have. Suppose I can't expect you to change." Sherlock said. 

They were suddenly giggling and barely able to stop as they hailed a cab back to Baker Street. 

_____

When they made it home John went about fixing some teaand and getting a cold pack on his head as Sherlock picked up his violin and stared out the window. He brought it to his shoulder but didn't play. He stood like that for over and hour before he spoke. John was sitting reading. 

"Demisexual." he said without turning from the window. 

"Sorry, what?" John asked, setting the paper down and cocking his head to the side. 

"A demisexual is a person who does not experience sexual attraction unless they form a strong emotional connection with someone. It's more commonly seen in but by no means confined to romantic relationships. The term demisexual comes from the orientation being "halfway between" sexual and asexual. Nevertheless, this term does not mean that demisexuals such as I have an incomplete or half-sexuality, nor does it mean that sexual attraction without emotional connection is required for a complete sexuality. When I am emotionally connected to someone else (whether the feelings are romantic love or deep friendship), I experience sexual attraction and desire, but only towards the specific partner.  
When describing demisexuality as an orientation to sexuals, sexuals often mistake it as an admirable choice rather than an innate orientation. Demisexuals are not choosing to abstain; they simply lack sexual attraction until a close relationship is formed.

"According to one hypothetical model, a person who identifies as a demisexual does not experience primary sexual attraction but does experience secondary sexual attraction. In this model, primary sexual attraction is based on outward qualities such as a person's looks, clothes, or personality while secondary sexual attraction is attraction stemming from a connection, usually romantic, or from status or how closely the person is in relationship to the other.  
Though factors such as looks and personality do not affect primary sexual attraction for demisexuals (since demisexuals do not experience primary sexual attraction), such factors may affect romantic attraction, as with any other orientation.  
"Demisexual" is sometimes out under the gray-A umbrella. Demisexuality differs from gray-asexuality in that demisexuality is a specific sexual orientation in between "sexual" and "asexual", whereas "gray-A" is a highly unspecific catch-all used for anything between sexual and asexual that does not fit.  
Demisexuality may make forming romantic or sexual relationships more difficult for some people. Demisexuals often make first impressions with sexuals of being "just friends", which may make them sexually value the relationship less.

"I've felt sexual attraction two times before but the people I was attracted to continued to see me as asexual and I never took it further. It's hard to explain it without sounding like I'm making excuses and as I'm hesitant to for any kind of bond with another person I have spent most of my life feeling no sexual attraction towards anyone." Sherlock said at his usual lightning speed. 

John sat stunned for a moment before clearing his throat and speaking. 

"I'm bisexual. I've dated more women than men and I've been...it's been hard to define myself as such. I'm...I'm not out."

"Do you wish to remain so, in the closet as they say?" Sherlock asked. 

"No." John replied quickly, more quickly than he thought he would. 

Sherlock nodded and turned to the window, lifting his violin to his shoulder and beginning to play. 

"Was today...was that a date?" John asked. 

Sherlock was already in his mind palace and didn't respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The definition of demisexuality is an almost direct quote from asexuality.org


	6. Cold Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin.

Mrs Hudson showed up a little after two with some sandwiches and crisps. She told John that she'd be gone for the weekend, going to see her sister, and asked if he would water her plants. John said he would and thanked her for the food. When she left he approached Sherlock where he still stood at the window playing. 

"Half a sandwich. Half a sandwich and I won't bother you at supper." he said, holding a plate out. 

Sherlock let the violin drop to his side and turned to look at John. He looked like he was thinking hard about something but didn't want to say what. 

"Come on, it won't kill you." John said steadily. 

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, taking the plate and going to the kitchen. 

"Thanks." John replied, picking up his sandwich and sitting in his chair.

There was a steady drizzle coming down outside and the cloud cover made the city look dreary. The light was tinged with blues and grays and after a few minutes John gave in and got up to start a fire. Sherlock came over to the sitting room with tea while he was lighting some kindling and settled on the sofa, sitting up for once. 

When the fire was going properly John went back to his chair and picked up his plate. He was halfway through his sandwich and almost done with his tea when Sherlock spoke. 

"My feet are cold." he whined. 

"So put on some socks." John replied, setting his plate down and standing to pick out a book to read. 

"Won't help. Too cold." Sherlock pouted. 

John sighed, trying not to show his smile, and grabbed an old, worn novel from the bookcase. 

"Well, what do you propose?" he asked as he turned around. 

Sherlock frowned and played with the edge of his dressing gown, having given up on his dress shirt hours before. "You're always overly warm. Probably because you insist on wearing those awful jumpers." 

"Oi! This was given to me by your mother!" John said, running his hand over the dark blue cashmere. 

"Come sit on the sofa." Sherlock said with an exasperated huff. 

"So I can be your personal heater?" John teased. 

"You have to be good for something." Sherlock said with a playful smile. 

John pretended he was scandalized but made his way over and let Sherlock manhandle him to the edge of the sofa so he could recline a bit. He stuck his toes under John's thigh and the older man jumped. 

"Bloody hell! They're like icicles!" he exclaimed. 

"I told you they were cold." Sherlock pouted. 

John sighed deeply as he put down his book and shifted on the cushion. He took Sherlock's feet onto his lap and started to rub them slowly. Sherlock breathed deeply and lay his head back on he armrest as John ran his thumbs up and down the arches of his feet. 

"You're like a cat, you know. Secretly desperate for touch but unwilling to admit it." John said softly as he massaged and warmed the taller man's toes. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock mumbled, eyes falling closed. 

"Bloody cat." John murmured. 

Sherlock tucked one foot back under John's thigh as the doctor worked both hands over the other and up to the ankle. 

"You've got the longest toes I've ever seen. Are you sure you can't write with these?" John said jokingly as he moved up to Sherlock's calve. 

"Ask me about my shoe size." Sherlock said with a sleepy grin. 

John huffed a laugh. "What's your shoe size?" 

"It's like a whole other arm." Sherlock replied in what John thought might just be his attempt at sexy. 

They broke into giggles and Sherlock pulled his feet back. He couldn't control the goofy grin on his face. It felt so good to laugh with John. 

"Is that what they teach in public school? Horrible jokes?" John asked with a snort, rubbing his hands up to Sherlock's knees. 

"Amongst other things." Sherlock replied, shifting so he could lay with his head in John's lap. 

John just sat there for a moment before he decided what to do with his hands. It wasn't like Sherlock had never lain like that before, he had on several occasions. Sherlock took what physical affection by force he needed when he was sick and the last two times he got a cold had spent most of the time stuck to John's side. He wasn't sick now. 

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes as John ran his fingers through his hair. John pulled the quilt from the back of the sofa over the taller man and tucked it around him. 

"You can watch one of your horrid shows if you like." Sherlock said as he arched his neck into John's touch. 

"Thanks, didn't know I needed permission." John teased as he turned the telly on. 

Sherlock hummed and shrugged absently. 

_____

Three hours later John had shifted so that he could write on his laptop while Sherlock rested against his side. He summed up their case from the morning as his companion tapped away on his phone. Sherlock let his head fall to John shoulder and huffed a sigh of annoyance. 

"My brother applauds your show of brutality this afternoon." he spit. 

John took a deep breath. "Of course he saw it. Tell him to bugger off." 

"Done and done. That's usually how I start conversations with him anyhow." Sherlock replied, sitting up and stretching. 

John immediately missed the warmth of his body against his side. He didn't say so. 

"Molly wants the toes back. I think she'll trade me for a spleen." Sherlock said as he stood and dropped his dressing gown. 

John watched as he walked to his bedroom, ostensibly to retrieve a shirt to go out in, and couldn't help feeling arousal as the lithe man's muscles moved under his vest. 

"I'll be back in an hour. Shall I pick up some food?" Sherlock asked as he returned to the sitting room. 

"You'd go to Tesco for me?" John asked, utter disbelief coloring his face. 

"Hardly." Sherlock replied, smiling as he buttoned his shirt. "I will stop by Angelo's though. Chicken parm?" 

John laughed and nodded. "And a bottle of wine if you can get it. You know what I like." he added. 

Sherlock nodded once and slipped his jacket and great coat on.  
_____

Sherlock was in fact able to talk Molly out of the spleen and was doing something fairly aggressive to it when John finished his dinner and took one last sip of his wine. 

"I'm heading to bed. I'll see you in the morning, yeah?" he said as he made his way to the loo. 

Sherlock grunted and continued on with his evisceration. 

John relieved himself and washed his hands then went about brushing and flossing as he hummed to himself. Perhaps he'd had a bit more wine than was necessary but the whole day had been almost surreal. The only way to avoid thinking about the far reaching implications was to get a bit tipsy and jerk off in bed. 

He rinsed his mouth and walked out towards the kitchen. Sherlock was hunched over the experiment talking to himself as John passed and he wanted so badly to stop the older man and hold him but he wasn't sure that was a good idea in his gore covered state. He let him pass without so much as a look. 

John felt a similar tug at his heart but kept walking just the same. When he made it into his room he sleepily removed his cardigan, checked shirt and vest along with his jeans and slipped under the covers. He hissed at the cold of the sheets against his skin then sighed at the weight of his duvet against his quickly hardening cock. 

He breathed deeply and shoved his hands under his thighs to warm them before even thinking of touching himself. The last thing he needed was frigid fingers around his prick. Damn this winter. He rubbed up and down his thighs before pushing his pants down his hips and gripping himself. 

"John?" Sherlock asked softly from the doorway. 

"Jesus! Bloody knock!" John shouted, rolling onto his side away from the door and pulling his pants up and over his turgid prick. Oh, God, how it loved Sherlock's voice. 

"I'm sorry...I'll just..." Sherlock said as he turned to go. 

"No. Sorry, you just startled me. What do you need?" John said, rolling onto his stomach and scrubbing a hand through his hair.  
"My feet...my feet are cold again." Sherlock replied with trepidation. 

John chuckled to himself at the childlike behavior and scooted over in his bed. 

"Come on, then. It's not much warmer in here yet but I'll do what I can." He said as he pulled back the covers. 

Sherlock walked across the room and let his dressing gown fall to the floor as he slipped into the bed. John breathed through his nose and tried to will his erection away, which was nearly fucking impossible as Sherlock curled against him in his almost naked glory. A bit of relief came when he shoved his freezing toes beneath John's calves. 

"You've got to stop walking round barefoot this time of year." John scolded. "You've got plenty of nice socks." 

"You're upset because you're aroused. I interrupted and you're upset." Sherlock said, not making any move to leave. 

"No. No. I'm not...I'm not upset." John said, burying his face in the pillows. 

"But you are aroused." Sherlock prodded. 

John nodded but refused to look up. He drew in a sharp breath as Sherlock ran his hand down his back to grip his arse. 

"You could use my hand." the detective whispered breathlessly.   
John shivered at the thought and accidentally thrust into the bed. He just barely bit off a moan as he clenched his teeth. 

"John." Sherlock murmured. 

John whimpered as Sherlock reached his hand between his legs and rubbed at he back of his bollocks. He was already aching and the sensation sent fireworks through him. Maybe it was the wine, maybe the late hour, who knows, but John made his decision and turned over. 

Sherlock rubbed down his cotton covered length and rolled his bollocks gently. John thrust into his hand and clenched his eyes closed. He lay perfectly still as Sherlock pulled his pants down to his ankles and then off, tossing them to the floor and taking his prick into his fist. It was hot and solid and a bit thicker that Sherlock had expected. He stroked once, up and down, before pulling his hand out from under the covers and leaning over to rifle through the bedside table. 

"Hey!" John said in weak exasperation. 

"Just getting lube." Sherlock replied as if that was something perfectly normal. Just getting lube from your best mate's bedside table so you could fist their cock until hey came. No big deal. Right. 

Sherlock opened a small bottle and poured some into his hand before turning the sheets down and gripping John's cock. He stroked again, this time with a slick fist, and John moaned. 

"Sherlock." John hissed as a thumb ran over the head. "Oh." 

Sherlock twined his right leg around John's thigh and rolled his hips. John groaned as he felt the thickness there, the proof of his arousal. Sherlock bloody Holmes was aroused. God, that was heady. 

He felt Sherlock's breath come faster as he began rutting slowly against his upper thigh and stroking his cock in tandem.  
He wanted to say something. There were a million things he wanted to say. 

'I love you. I want you. I've always wanted you. Do you really want me? I never meant to say those horrible things to you. I never meant to hurt you. What does this mean? What does it all mean?'

In the end he said nothing, letting his head loll back on the pillow as Sherlock pumped him with growing speed. He could feel slight stubble brushing against his shoulder and had to breath deeply to stop himself from moaning aloud. Sherlock flicked his wrist and he saw stars. 

"You don't have to be quiet, John." Sherlock said as he wrapped his leg tighter and thrust hard. 

"Oh, God." John exclaimed. 

"Tell me. Tell me, John." Sherlock demanded. 

"Oh, tighter. Fuck. Faster. Oh. Oh, just like that." John panted as Sherlock adjusted his grip and bit down slightly on his shoulder. 

He started to thrust his hips, pushing his cock through Sherlock's tight grip and watching the head pop out from his fist and dissappear once again. He thrust harder, foreskin pulling back all the way to show the fat reddened head, and felt the telltale tightening in his abdomen. 

"Tell me what you need." Sherlock whispered, voice cracking. 

John pulled Sherlock close and licked into his mouth, thrusting his hips erratically and feeling himself lose control. He whimpered into Sherlock's mouth as his cock grew harder and the first pulse of come hit his stomach and dripped down Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock was panting too now, rutting against him feverishly and cursing under his breath. John's cock pulsed again, again and once more as he rode out his orgasm at the hands of the best man he'd ever known. 

When his cock became too sensitive he pushed Sherlock off him and sat up. 

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock said, obviously thinking he'd done something wrong. 

John simply stripped him of his pants and bent down to take his cock in his mouth. Sherlock cried out as John tongued the slit and went rigid. John fondled his bollocks as he sucked athe head and Sherlock tumbled into oblivion, cursing as his cock spilled out John's tongue. John swallowed over and over again and pulled off gently. 

"John." Sherlock murmured. 

"Don't you ever say you're sorry again." John demanded, crawling up and taking Sherlock in his arms. 

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. After a few moments he nuzzled John's neck and spoke. 

"You're getting come all over my stomach." He said sleepily. 

John chuckled and reached for the floor. He found his pants and cleaned them both off then flopped back down onto Sherlock's chest. 

"Better?" he asked. 

"Mmm." Sherlock replied. 

"Good, I'm going to sleep now." John announced groggily. 

"Mmm." Sherlock replied again.


	7. Let's Not Be Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes as Sherlock thrashes from a nightmare.

John woke before daylight to a knee to the kidney. He wheezed and slid out of bed, doubled over and wondering if he'd be pissing blood for a week. He looked over at the bed to find Sherlock fisting the sheets and mumbling in his sleep. His brow was drawn tight and there was sweat running down his temple. Something wicked had taken hold of him in the night. 

"Sherlock. Hey, wake up." John said as he shook the detective's shoulder gently. 

Sherlock swore in a language with probable Slavic roots and swung his arm. John moved just in time and climbed onto the bed to hold him against his chest. 

"Sherlock, wake up, you're fine." He murmured. 

"Get off me!" Sherlock shouted, voice ragged with sleep. 

John let go and went back to standing next to the bed. When he did he saw the scars. There were fifteen, maybe twenty, marring the pale skin of Sherlock's back. They were long and straight and of varying stages of healing. The freshest one was a pale pink whereas many others were bright white. John watched in horror as Sherlock parsed where he was and pulled a sheet across his back. 

"Sherlock." he said, mouth dry. 

"It's nothing. I'm making tea." Sherlock said as he strode to the stairs with the sheet drawn around him tight. 

John stood dumbfounded for a second before following him down the stairs. The rain from the day before had tripled it's effort and was making the windows shake. John turned on the entryway light and walked into the kitchen to find Sherlock filling the red electric kettle. 

"What happened?" he asked, adding as if it needed some sort of qualifier, "to your back, I mean." 

"I'd rather not talk about it." Sherlock replied coldly as he grabbed two mugs and a half empty box of biscuits. 

"It was while you were away." John said stupidly. 

"It wasn't the bloody holiday you seem to think it was, John! How was your time in war? Let's talk about all your injuries, shall we?" Sherlock spit, turning and clutching at the sheet so hard his knuckles paled. 

"Right. Yeah, sorry. I'll just...I'll take a shower." John said, looking at the floor guiltily and atempting to walk past Sherlock to the loo. 

Sherlock gripped his arm and after a second pulled him close, the sheet stuck between them as he clutched at John's neck and buried his face in his shoulder. John tentatively reached his arms around him and stroked his upper back. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured. 

"It's okay. Hey, stop. It's okay." John soothed. "We're both tired and I crossed a line. Let's take a shower, yeah?" 

Sherlock nodded and followed John to the loo, dragging the sheet behind him like a child's security blanket. John started the tap and held his hand under until it got hot then turned the shower on and stepped into the large tub. Sherlock climbed in behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. 

"I didn't know-" John began. 

"I know." Sherlock interjected. 

"If I had known-" John tried again. 

"It's fine." Sherlock mumbled. 

"It's really not." John said, turning in Sherlock's arms and taking his face in his hands. "It's really not fine." 

"Then fix it, John. The mystery is solved, save the patient." Sherlock said, voice a bit broken. "Save me." 

John went up on tiptoe to kiss him as he ran fingers along the marks on his back. When he drew away Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly and he was shaking. 

"Save me." he whispered. 

John drew him close and proceeded to wash every inch of his skin meticulously as the taller man cried. He honestly didn't know what else to do. If it were an open wound he would be quick and precise in his work. With the wounds physically healed he had no bearings, didn't know how to help. All he could think to do was touch, keep his hands on Sherlock, let him know he cared. 

He drew away finally and had Sherlock rinse then started cleaning himself up. Sherlock stood at the end of the tub looking like a wet kitten. When John had finished washing his hair he lathered Sherlock's curls and had him stand under the spray. 

"Let me make breakfast and we can check out some of the cold case files Greg brought over last week." John said as he turned off the water and gently patted Sherlock dry. 

"They'll probably be obvious and boring." Sherlock pouted. 

"Yeah, cause you're a bloody genius." John said, wrapping a towel around his waist and kissing Sherlock gently. 

Sherlock smiled sadly and picked up his toothbrush. They brushed their teeth in silence and John relieved himself before going upstairs to get dressed. 

When he came back down Sherlock was on the floor with a case file spread around him and a towel on his head. He brushed a hand across the taller man's shoulder and went to see what was in the fridge. 

"Looks like it'll have to be beans and toast. Remind me to go to Tesco today." he said. 

"Go to Tesco today." Sherlock replied. 

"Git." John said with a grin. 

_____

By the time they'd had breakfast the sun was up and the rain had stopped. John stood looking out the window and running his hand over the painful bruise Sherlock's nightmare had caused. 

"Do you want a cuppa?" Sherlock asked, finally coming out of his bedroom in a crisp suit. 

"What are we doing?" John asked without turning around. 

"Waiting for Lestrade to summon us." Sherlock replied with false innocence. 

"You know what I mean. What happened last night...do you want that again? Is this something you want?" John said, turning and fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. 

"Is it something you want?" Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling like he might see those beans and toast again quite soon. 

"Yes." John replied softly. 

Sherlock smiled and took a step forward. He ran his hands down John's arms and looked him in the eye. 

"Let's not be fools for once." he said, leaning down to brush his lips against John's. 

"Oi!" John protested weakly. "I'm not always a fool." 

"Shut up and kiss me." Sherlock replied with a grin. 

John sighed for show and pulled Sherlock down for a deep kiss. Sherlock ran his tongue across John's bottom lip and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing the shorter man to his body and humming appreciatively. 

"You know you do have to fill out paperwork if you still want to-" Greg said from the doorway. 

He was cut off by the sight in front of him and gaped for several long seconds as the two men pulled apart and John flushed a deep red. 

"Lestrade." Sherlock said, straightening his suit jacket and clearing his throat. 

"I lost the bloody bet. That's fifty quid down the drain." Lestrade said absently. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John shook his head. 

"You should have known better. John and I were meant to be." Sherlock said haughtily. 

John grinned at that and licked his bottom lip. "We'll meet you at the Met in a half hour, Greg." 

"Yeah, yeah." Greg said, turning and starting down the stairs. He stopped partway down and jogged back up. "Congrats anyhow." he said with a soft smile. 

John nodded at him and followed Sherlock into the kitchen.


	8. Down, Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the dog analogies begin!

When Sherlock heard the street level door close behind Lestrade he pounced on John and began suckling his neck. John had to take hold of the back of his arm chair to avoid toppling over completely. 

"You said, oh, you said we were meant to be." John said with a high pitched giggle as Sherlock's lips tickled his neck. 

"So I did. Take off your trousers." Sherlock said, deft fingers undoing the buttons of John's shirt. 

John caught his hands and clasped them behind his back. "Meant to be, as in fate." he teased. 

"Glad to see you're brain can function as a base level thesaurus." Sherlock said as he traced the shell of John's ear with his tongue. 

"You don't believe in silly things like fate." John said, drawing his head back and making Sherlock huff. 

"Well I do NOW!" Sherlock pouted, running his nose up John's neck and squirming in his grasp. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Down boy!" John finally shouted, letting Sherlock's hands go and backing away with a grin. 

"I'm not a dog, John!" Sherlock protested, scrambling for John's shirt collar and pulling it open. 

"No, you're more of a bitch in heat." John teased as he slipped around to the front of the sofa and started to rebutton his shirt. 

"A bitch in this instance IS a dog! Your analogy doesn't even work and I notice your bloody trousers are still on and now you're becoming more clothed! This is not going in the direction I would prefer!" Sherlock growled, jumping over the chair and walking on the table to get to John. 

"My coat is on and my keys are in my pocket! We are leaving and you are going to behave!" John said, attempting a powerful tone and failing miserably due to the wideness of his grin. 

"But I don't WANT to go to the Met! I hate everyone there and you're here and have I mentioned today how handsome you look in that cardigan-thing?" Sherlock tried as he closed the distance between them and slid to his knees. 

John was laughing full stop now, his own hard-on be damned, and walking down the stairs out of the flat backwards. Sherlock scooted forward on his knees, which just made John laugh harder, and screamed at him. 

"John Hammish Watson, do not leave me wanting!" he shouted, face turning absurdly pink. 

Mrs Hudson opened her door and looked up the stairs at them. 

"Oh, for the love of God, you two! If you're going to shag in the stairway give me notice! I've done a bit of that in my time, mind you, nothing wrong with a little-" she began. 

"No, Mrs Hudson, we aren't shagging in the stairwell!" John replied, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "We're going to the Met!" 

"Oh! Sorry dears. Bit of an overactive imagination, I suppose!" she tittered. 

"We wouldn't have to shag in the stairwell if John would just take me on the sitting room floor like I asked!" Sherlock shouted directly at John. 

John said some prayers he remembered from his short stint in Sunday school and ran the rest of the way down the stairs and out into the morning with a bedraggled Sherlock gaining on him. The second Sherlock was through the doorway he was all grace and polish and John had to bite his lip to stop from cackling like a madman in front of all the poor people just trying to get to work. 

"This is not over, John." Sherlock hissed as he ran a hand through his curls and hailed a cab. 

"You can show me off." John said with an exaggerated shrug. 

"What?" Sherlock asked, opening the cab door for him. 

"To all the yarders. Show me off. Come on, I know you want to." John replied, slipping into the warmth of the black car and patting the seat next to him. 

It seemed to take Sherlock a while to make a decision and when he eventually spoke they were almost there. 

"This is my partner Dr Watson." he announced to the driver. 

The man peered at them in the rear view and nodded. 

"Yeah, seen you two on telly." the old man said. 

"No! Not my work partner! Well, yes, my work partner, but...this isn't working. John, why isn't it working?" Sherlock asked, already a bit worked up. 

John, who was working on his impersonation of a turnip (at least in color and inability to speak), cleared his throat and tried to help. 

"Boyfriend?" he asked, looking a bit stricken with having to say the word. 

Sherlock nodded and seemed to latch onto it. "Yes, what he said! Dr Watson is my boyfriend!" 

The cabbie nodded slowly and looked back out the windscreen. "I'll have to tell the missus. She had a theory, mind you." 

"Everyone had a bloody theory." John grumbled under his breath. 

Sherlock, who looked just like a puppy who'd been told they were going to the park, took John's hand and relaxed immensely. He grinning out the window at the people passing by and John had a mind to take his bloody temperature. 

Luckily, for John's sanity and the city's pedestrians, they made it to their destination and were able to get out of the cab in one piece. John apologised to the driver and gave him a big tip to which the man simply congratulated him and drove away. 

John braced himself for what he hoped wouldn't turn into a full on circus and let Sherlock lead him through the front door by his hand. He wondered if it would be another #sherlocklives moment and hoped it wouldn't as they turned the corner. 

Sally Donovan, demoted but not fired, was leaning against the wall taking to Greg as they approached. Her eyes flew wide for a moment before she got ahold of herself. Sherlock stuck his nose impossibly high in the air as they approached. 

"Well, look who it is, Sherlock Holmes and his lap dog." she sniped. 

Greg elbowed her in the ribs and Sherlock cleared his throat. 

"Apparently I'm the dog in the relationship. What did you call me earlier, John? A bitch in hea-" Sherlock was cut off by John's hand over his mouth. 

He struggled to no avail. 

"That was your one snarky comment, Sally. Another and I swear me and my..." John stalled at that and looked Sherlock over, taking his hand away from his mouth and saying the next bit in a whisper. "Me and my bitch in heat will have your bloody badge." 

Sally went from looking quite amused to staring at Greg for backup. 

"I've been telling you to stop for years." Lestrade replied honestly. 

She snorted and walked down the hall, muttering under her breath that at least they couldn't breed. 

"Maybe we'll ADOPT!" Sherlock shouted after her. 

John gave a withering look and his lanky companion straightened his scarf and shut up.


	9. I Know, I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our final chapter. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Kate

Greg led the two men into his office and closed the door behind himself. He crossed his arms and watched Sherlock slowly inch his chair closer to John's. The doctor blushed up the back of his neck and looked back at Greg. 

"Paperwork?" he asked. 

Greg cleared his throat and nodded. He tried not to stare at Sherlock's left hand as it made its way to John's upper thigh and ran into the corner of his desk in the process. He'd fucking bruise. Great. 

"Maybe you should have finished what you were up to when I interrupted." he said as he took a seat. 

"Thank you! See, John, even Jeremy gets it!" Sherlock pouted. 

"You bloody well know his name, Sherlock. And Greg, mate, you honestly want to stay out of this one." John said, pushing Sherlock's hand away and scooting his chair to the left. 

"Sorry." Greg said, holding his hands up. 

He passed the usual forms over and left the two alone in his office. It never occurred to him that it might be a bad idea. 

"Let's have sex on Greg's desk." Sherlock said with a wide grin. 

"Oh, yeah, now you remember his name. And no. No sex until we get home. Christ, what has got into you?" John asked, smiling softly. 

"I honestly have no idea. I think you've broken my brain." Sherlock said, looking truly puzzled. 

"Git." John chuckled as he got to work on the forms. 

_____

As soon as they got home Sherlock rushed into the kitchen and turned on the electric kettle. John settled on the couch and watched his boyfriend, that was new, pace. 

"You'll want toast. You'll want toast and I should make toast but I've deleted where the bread is or if we have any." Sherlock mumbled as if to himself. 

"Left cabinet." John replied. 

Sherlock got the last two pieces into the toaster and poured steaming water over two tea bags. He watched the mugs with a sort of painful fascination until the toast popped up. 

"Are you alright?" John asked as Sherlock came to the sitting room with the tea and toast. 

"I said horrible things. I said horrible things to you and I don't know what to do." he said. 

"Oh, Sherlock. Look, I said horrible things too. I'll forgive you if you forgive me, yeah?" John replied. 

Sherlock nodded and crawled onto the sofa. He rested his head in John's lap and pulled the doctor's shirt from his denims. John giggled and then almost shrieked when Sherlock pressed his nose to the soft skin of his stomach. 

"Jesus H. Christ! Your nose is bloody freezing!" he yelped. 

Sherlock hummed his agreement and nuzzled further into John's skin, pulling the shirt over his head and seeming to relax exponentially. John chuckled and rubbed a hand down his back. 

A knock came to the door and Sherlock groaned and pulled John's shirt tighter over his head. John sighed and was about to get up when Mycroft walked through the door. 

"You know, it's customary to wait after knocking on the door. Not that I didn't appreciate the knocking." John said with a put upon sigh. 

"I see I've interrupted." Mycroft replied, one eyebrow making it up his forehead. 

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, sitting up abruptly and straightening out his shirt. John could swear he wore a slight blush. 

"I just felt I should...congratulate you on the new developments in your relationship. We were all beginning to wonder if you'd ever take the leap." Mycroft replied, trying to look slightly disgusted but failing. 

Sherlock huffed and stood to walk to the door. "If that will be all." 

"I hope you will both be joining us for mummy's birthday dinner later this week." Mycroft said. 

Sherlock looked as if he might just explode as Mycroft inspected the end of his ever present umbrella. 

"Absolutely." John replied. 

Sherlock's eyes shot wide and John gave him his best 'keep your mouth shut' look. It worked quite well. 

"I suppose the two of you can get back to your cuddling now." Mycroft teased. 

Sherlock nearly growled and slammed the door behind him. 

"Do you mind if I come?" John asked, suddenly somewhat apprehensive about seeing Sherlock's parents after the spectacular disaster of his marriage. 

Sherlock walked back to the sofa and sat down next to John, leaning over to lay a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

"Who else would entertain me?" he asked. "You know I'm thoroughly miserable without you." 

John felt his throat tighten and had to stop himself from an outpouring of emotion. He kissed Sherlock desperately instead of speaking, not trusting the truths that might leave his mouth. Sherlock settled against him and pushed a hand under his shirt to caress his hip. 

_____

The night of the party John was buttoning his favorite checked shirt and adjusting his hair when Sherlock came back into the guest bedroom and stood fidgeting in front of him. 

"You look like you're going to be ill." John said, shrugging on his jacket and toeing on his shoes. 

Sherlock frowned and walked to the bed. 

"I...that is, well, I was wondering..." he began. 

When he didn't finish his sentence John cocked his head and grinned. "Christ. You're nervous. What's going on?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a small envelope from his back pocket. He turned it over in his hands a few times before shoving it into John's hand. 

"This...well, it's just...it's probably stupid." he said, hands moving to push into his trouser pockets and not meeting John's eyes. 

John started to open the envelope and Sherlock snatched it back from him. He opened it himself and knelt nervously on one knee. 

"I was going to wait until dinner. There was going to be champagne and candles and people seem to like that sort of frivolity. I thought it might be a good idea to do it in private though, in case you didn't want to. That way I wouldn't embarrass you in public and you-" He was cut off by John's lips crashing into his and his arms wrapping around his back. 

John had tears in his eyes when he finally drew back, drawing in a desperate breath and looking down at the simple gold band. Sherlock wouldn't admit to anyone that his hands shook as he slipped the ring onto John's finger and John would keep the truth to himself. He liked the idea that Sherlock's fragility belonged to him. 

_____

That night, after dinner and champagne and mummy Holmes crying into her napkin, John pulled Sherlock onto the bed in the guestroom and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. 

"I love you." he whispered. 

Sherlock whimpered and lay on his back as John stripped him, kissing every newly revealed inch of skin. 

"John." he sighed, eyes clenched closed. 

"I know. I'm right here." John murmured, standing to remove his own clothes and climbing back up to straddle Sherlock's lap. 

"Oh." Sherlock gasped, hands gripping John's hips as the doctor spit into his hand and gripped their cocks in his fist. 

"You're so gorgeous like this. God. Oh, God, you feel good." John mumbled as he began stroking them slowly from root to tip. 

"John." Sherlock moaned. 

The older man leaned down to kiss at his neck and drew small whimpers and sighs from him as he sped up his hand. Sherlock was soon thrusting his hips and panting loudly as John sealed their lips together and ran his thumb over the sensitive head of his prick. 

He broke the kiss to plead as he gripped John's thighs. "It's, I'm, I'm going to, I need you inside me, John, please." 

John growled low in his throat and sat back on his knees to stare down at Sherlock's writhing body. Sherlock whimpered and raised his hips and John launched himself from the bed to scramble through his duffle for the lube. 

When he got back onto the bed Sherlock was gripping his bollocks and looking as if he might pass out. His eyes were shut tightly and he was squirming. 

"Shhh. I've got you. I've got you." John soothed as he spread Sherlock's legs and prepared him for only the second time. 

He chewed on his lip as he rubbed in gentle circles and teased Sherlock open. When he slipped his index finger in Sherlock gasped and wriggled his hips. John chuckled and worked a second and then third finger in next to the first. By the time he pulled his fingers out and slicked up his cock Sherlock was whispering his name over and over again. 

He pulled the detective's legs onto his shoulders and lined himself up. 

"Fuck." He growled as he pushed in. "Fuck. So tight." 

Sherlock moaned and rolled his hips, urging John to move. As John started to thrust into him he pulled the shorter man down and licked into his mouth. 

John picked up speed and was soon fucking deeply into Sherlock with solid thrusts, grunting and sighing at the tight heat. 

"John. Please." Sherlock whined. 

John reached between them and took up Sherlock's weeping cock in his sweat slick hand, stroking quickly and pushing Sherlock over the edge. Come spilled onto his fist and Sherlock tightened around him. He followed quickly, thrusting three more times and pushing in as deep as he could as he gripped Sherlock's thighs. 

When he finally had enough control over his body to pull out Sherlock tugged him down to lie on top of him. John chuckled and sighed happily as the taller man brushed his long fingers through short cropped hair. 

"I do, you know. Love you. I do." Sherlock whispered. 

"I know." John replied. "I know."


End file.
